Ancient Ruins
(Me, with my new family in Kalu Kalan, Pakistan. 1992. We’re standing
directly in front of the kitchen and the torn down room where Zain was
born. Sponge rollers? I say, never leave home without them!)
Ancient Ruins
(Excerpt from Bangles, My True Story of Escape, Adventure and Forgiveness, by Marsha Marie)
Another twelve hours in flight and we finally arrived in Pakistan. There seemed to be a thousand people at Islamabad Airport. The terminal was unwelcoming: brown walls and a metal ceiling. The roar of an unknown language swept through the congested area. Several luggage carousels filled the center. Zain said that we’d have to be quick getting our bags so that they wouldn’t be stolen. I kept a tight grip on both of the kids and followed him very closely.
We walked outside of the rustic terminal to an ocean of people. To be honest, I thought they were all there for us. I was in shock. How big is his family? Strangers from all different directions were grabbing me and hugging me. A few of the family members swept the kids away from me. I screamed out, shaking my head in feverish disapproval, trying to grab them back, “Wait! No, no!” I refused to let go.
“Don’t worry, that’s my sister!” Zain shouted over the noise.
The crowd led us to a train of vans that had brought the clan to the airport. The family started climbing into them. One after another. It was like clowns at the circus climbing into a small car. Eventually, it was my turn to join. I ended up crowded into a backseat, sitting by one of my sisters-in-law. She was young and still displaying bridal adornments. The ride home was interrupted several times by her bouts of vomiting; it turned out she was pregnant. A welcoming sound, indeed.
The journey from the airport was noisy—very noisy. I remember looking out the window just as the sun was rising. I could see a sprinkle of shops along the two-lane road. They looked like makeshift shacks with metal roofs slightly sloping towards the back of the store. The fog was nippy and moist, but not too dense to see through. There were no city streetlights along the road, only fluorescent-tubes hanging in the shops. Only a few men were walking slowly in the mist. They were wrapped in twin-sized blankets and wore woolen hats. No women were out at this time of the morning—none within my view, anyway.
The long stretch of road took us along our way for about an hour and a half. Eventually we went off to a narrow paved road, which then led us to a very bumpy dirt road. I looked over to my left and spotted what I thought were ancient ruins. Wow! I wonder who lived there.
We jolted our way down the bumpy road, and came to a stop next to some dilapidated buildings that seemed to continue down the road.
“Awesome! We get to go look at the ruins up close? O-oo! Interesting!” I squealed with excitement. My first adventure!
Suddenly my husband turned around from the front seat and said, “We’re here.”
“Oh, great! Where are we?”
“This is my mom’s house!”
“What? Did I hear you right? This is your mom’s house?” I quieted in a snap—I was stunned. In hindsight, I know I should’ve studied a bit more before taking a leap of faith to move in with Zain’s family. But, all I could really think of at the time was getting away from David’s control. The thought of freedom clouded my better judgment.
A gathering of people hovered around the caravan. We left the vehicles and walked down an alley just off to the left of the vans. It was too narrow for a car, but two people could walk comfortably down it side-by-side. The walls were red brick and without any stucco. On the right-hand side of the alley was a trench—three-quarters of the way full of black slimy water. The area had a certain pungent smell. (Funny, but I would eventually grow to love and recognize this smell as the smell of home.)
The crowd led me halfway down the alley and into the second door on the right. The double wooden doors were crooked from age, with a history of dents and scrapes clearly visible. Hanging about three feet inside the door was a barrier of burlap potato sacks—roughly stitched together like patchwork—that were strung up across the yard about seven feet high, parallel with the entrance gate.
We walked around the burlap sheet and into the courtyard of my mother-in-law’s home. I can still see it etched in my mind.
The property layout was square, with rooms neatly laid around the outer edges. The middle courtyard was open to the sky.
To the left of the burlap barrier was a huge cow. Her calf was tied down only a few feet away. She stood on a brick-laid floor about fifteen by fifteen feet and had a cement trough that was worn and broken in places along the edges. By the obvious patches of cement, it looked like the trough had been repaired several times.
Behind the cow’s trough was a storage room where the cow stayed at night or whenever the weather was uncomfortable for her outside. It also served as storage for hay and fodder.
On top of the cow room was where the cow dung was dried in huge gumdrop-shaped blobs. Once dried, it was stored and used as firewood.
To the right of the burlap barrier was a chicken coop and a small storage room—where they kept the dried cow dung. The storage room didn’t have a door on it—just a rough, stringy burlap veil to keep the rain out.
Moving along in an L-shape direction was a longer brick building with two more closet-sized rooms and an attached veranda off the end. They were the bathing room and the toilet: two different rooms for two different functions.
Under the veranda was a motor with metal pipes running up to the rustic tank on top of the building. There was also a hand pump and a small, cemented area that led excess water into a gutter—which led to the trench in the alley that I mentioned earlier.
Along the back of the property were three connected buildings. The center structure was made of mud and brick. The roof had huge wooden beams with sticks crossing over it to fill up the gaps.
On top of the sticks was a hardened mud layer that sloped forward so that the rain would run off easily. The mud-stucco on the walls was worn, but freshly painted with pastel-colored limestone. This particular room belonged to my mother-in-law, Amijon. (While on the plane, I had asked Zain about how I should address my new mother-in-law. He told me that I should call her Amijon, which means: respected mother in Hindko—the local language.)
The room to the left of Amijon’s belonged to my sister-in-law, Wafa. It appeared to be quite newer—made with cement and brick, and had a cement slab roof on top. There was a definite contrast between the two rooms that clearly demonstrated a change in architecture and interior design. The room to the right of Amijon’s room was half torn down. The rubble really looked like ancient ruins. It looked as if an earthquake had hit, causing the ceiling to cave in. Piles of bricks and dirt lay on the ground. The walls of this room were broken down to a third of their original size.
I climbed over the bricks to explore inside. As I looked around the exposed room, and saw several bird nests where the built-in cabinets used to store fine china. There were also small cocoon-shaped balls of black hair stuffed into the broken crevices of the walls—a custom that women partake in—as they are not allowed to burn human hair. Suddenly, something brass caught my eye. I was told that it was a pitcher from my mother-in-law’s wedding dishes. Apparently, this is the room where Zain was born.
Connected to the right-front corner of this historic room was the kitchen. It was about double the size of the bathroom, with a fireplace built into the left corner. In front of it were burlap sacks—laid out like throw rugs—giving a nice warm spot to sit on winter days. Dishes were in the window on wooden plank shelving. There was no glass on the outside of the window, only wire mesh and yet another burlap covering to keep out the winter chill. Oddly, the door to the kitchen was only five feet tall, and you had to step over a six-inch threshold to get in.
There were a few trees in the yard: a couple of skinny eucalyptus trees, and one nice-sized guava tree right in front of Amijon’s room. The courtyard was just dirt, nothing more.
The bathroom was an intriguing place. Its wooden-plank door opened from the right. The problem with that was, since I was coming from the left, it seemed like the door was on backwards. Then when it opened, it made an eerie creaking sound. It was locked by sliding a metal cylinder latch into a little, chiseled hole in the brick wall. The brick bearing the hole was so worn down, that if you were to push against the locked door hard enough, it would open right up with the lock still engaged.
The walls of the six-by-five toilet were painted completely black. The ceiling had beams going across with little sticks positioned together to cover it—the same as Amijon’s room and the kitchen. The floor was brown cement; at least I think it was brown, or maybe it was regular cement yellowed by water stains; I really couldn’t tell because the light from the bulb hanging from the ceiling was too dim. Down below the bulb, about two feet off the ground, there was a small spout that protruded out of the wall. Directly under that, was a brand new, chalky green watering can— used for cleaning yourself up after using the bathroom. Toilet paper was nowhere to be found.
The actual bowl sat inside a cement platform built in the back half of the bathroom. It was a white porcelain funnel-shaped cavity with a bumpy footrest on each side. If I looked up while squatting down, I could see a bird’s nest that was safely tucked away in a sweet little niche right above the door—a cool spot for the hot summers, I suppose.
My first experience with the bathroom funnel was shocking to say the very least. At first, I would end up peeing all over my legs and feet. “Oh my God, this is disgusting!” I would yell out from inside the bathroom for all to hear. Yet, through trial and error, I finally figured the best method. First, I would take off my pants, or salwar, and hang them on a nail inside the bathroom. Then, I would very carefully mount the funneled abyss. Then, once I finished my business, I’d use the water to wash myself off—legs, feet and everything else. (The water mirrored the weather—sometimes freezing cold, and sometimes burning hot.) Then, once I’d completely cleaned myself up, I’d re-dress—still wet from the washing. I ended up using this method for many years. But like I said, it was trial and error.
Within the first two weeks, I came up with a brilliant idea. I requested that we bring a toilet seat home to place over the hole where the feet went. Since the funnel was in the platform anyway, it made a great little spot for me to sit down. Eureka! With the seat, I could utilize it as if it were a regular commode, and not have to undress each time. It sounded good theoretically speaking.
But, I soon found out there was a flaw in my plan. Oftentimes, I’d end up spilling water all over my pants, which meant that I still ended up taking them off anyway. And, on top of that, they were soaked when I put them back on.
I eventually stopped using the makeshift seat altogether and learned to squat like the rest of them—you know as they say, when in Rome? Now, there was one last problem to solve in my bathroom chronicles. And that was learning how to aim my stuff at the funnel and not on the back of it next to the wall. Again, trial and error, but I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say, it was a blessing that most of the time my stuff was water-based.
Outside the toilet was a yellow porcelain basin in the courtyard-- with an oval mirror mounted over it— where the whole family washed up and brushed their teeth.
This area also turned out to be a real showcase for the neighbors around us.
Every single morning, several villagers would stand on top of their houses to watch my morning routine. They wouldn’t say anything. They would just stand and stare. They did this for months. In the beginning, I’d get really annoyed by the attention. Sometimes I’d storm off and feel like I was an animal in a cage, or in some kind of freak show. It took a long time for me to understand that the spectators didn’t mean any harm. They were just curious—that’s all. So, to help matters move along a bit more quickly, I had a new bathroom for myself built inside the house for privacy.
I think it is obvious by now that bathrooms were always a drama for me in my new land. I spent a lot of time washing myself over and over again (which was not easy in the winter!). I began compiling a long list of decent workable bathrooms across the entire country. I would actually have a written plan of action for my potty breaks. At least, I would try my best. Sometimes, I was hit with emergencies and thus landing in really awful latrines—but when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go, right?
